


Ad Astra Per Aspera

by MorningGlory21



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, but overall i write pretty general fics, it's an anthology piece, or not very graphic tbh, so i'll update stuff as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 11:46:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16701934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorningGlory21/pseuds/MorningGlory21
Summary: Kansas has had many sides to itself. Hectic or boring, extremists of all stripes have called this land their own; working for the good of the people and their own causes.So, it follows, that a land with so many polarizing stories and figures, would also have an array of stories to tell. And these are those stories of its personification, Evelyn Lawrence.





	1. Battleground fo Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> Starting this all off is a poem! I'm very much into poetry (and will definitely be posting more that aren't Statetalia related) and I wanted to have a good start to this anthology.

I was born in chaos,

A baptism of blood and storm.

My skin turned clammy and slick-

With the blood and sweat of war and brothers.

I rode in storms and faced rifles in the hundreds,

Fought men to the thousands-

And I lived to tell the tale.

I broke my teeth on a bayonet’s edge

And ate the words of bitter populations-

Yet I prospered and burned.

I bit the bullet and took the promises

Made in clouded and petty greed,

Even when made by men who knew not

What they were to start by it.

So I burned for them and myself.

 

Once and twice and thrice,

I made myself into a storm-

I’ve been in the eye of it,

And I swallowed them all.

My body is a testament

To all of the righteous storms,

Ones that tore at my hair and heart,

At my hands and head.

The words I spat out,

Made by a clouded heart;

Those are the storms I swallowed,

The righteous that made me unholy.

Regret wasn’t a name I knew,

A woman left unrendered to me-

For that I am sorry.

But you heard me,

And I left my mark-

Didn’t I?


	2. Hell's Raiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit longer, this one. It was written BEFORE another one of my other Lawrence Massacre fics (Not Even God Can Save You Now) so do please excuse any discrepancies in this one.
> 
> Extra writing in order (that isn't already cited)  
> The Prize Song by Charles S. Weyman  
> Psalm 144:1

 

> Far in the West rolls the thunder—
> 
> The tumult of battle is raging
> 
> Where bleeding Kansas is waging
> 
> War against Slavery!

* * *

The sun was peeking it’s warm head up from the horizon. The sounds of the nearby river were a soothing background noise and the air was already turning warm. Brushing hair from her face, Evelyn looked around at her small farm of a few chickens and a cow. Of course, her horse was grazing peacefully, tail swishing blithely. The early morning promised heat; the air thrummed with early-rising insects and something Evelyn just couldn’t seem to pinpoint. It annoyed her when things, especially the events and going-ons of her own land, eluded her. Faintly, she wondered if writing a letter to Seth back in Massachusetts would be needed, would be wanted by him. But the bitter sting of an earlier fight (hah! He hadn’t wanted her to fight, but she was _Kansas_ , war was her definition and cornerstone) still clung to her mind like a burr and she quickly recanted the idea. Patting down her uniform (Union Blue, thank you very much) to rid herself of dust, her sweaty hair fell in front of her eyes once again.

Again, she pushed hair from her eyes and the small beads of sweat accumulating on her brow. Perhaps if she’d been far older, the state would have noticed minute details that wronged the atmosphere. Sadly, she only noticed the sweat and the great thirst she was garnering. Sighing faintly to herself, Evelyn rubbed her neck and winced at the contact on a scar hidden by her shirt.

Grimacing slightly to herself, the young state pressed a tentative finger to a still tender and pink scar on her collarbone, to check on how it felt. Wincing at the touch, she drew her finger away. When had she gotten that one? The same question could be asked for the countless scars littering her body (however, she could point to you the scars left behind by the Pottawatomie Massacre and the Battle of Blackjack), some fresh and many older, healed and barely there anymore. She’d given up track on keeping a tally for them once she became a state; no need to do so when she’d only get more. They were like bugs under rocks, breeding and hiding in the dark.

Letting out a heaving sigh, the young woman (her body had progressed insofar of looking like that of a 16 year old girl and yet she kept much of her own boyish looks of broader shoulders and shorter hair) shuffled away tools for tidying-up. Rubbing her hands on her pants, she made her way to her porch and slid down into an old chair (hadn’t it been a gift from the North?). Finally allowing herself to take in the air and skies and sounds, Evelyn closed her eyes. She had more work to do (check the chickens, brush down her steed and feed the dogs), but she’d been constantly working for so long. It was sad, she had to remark to herself, that it was a blurry mess of when she last simply sat down and experienced her own lands.

The sweet smells of the trees, the river and distant prairies filled her mind and nose. Wildflowers, trees green and lush, with fruits ripe for the picking. Dappled by sunlight and filled with grasses that danced and swayed to the winds. Like the breezes of the prairies themselves, images of the dead seemed to breeze right in, laying in ravines or on the grounds, spotting the land with their blood and stifling the air with their last prayers for freedom.

Smoke billowing from buildings, mothers and daughters running for their lives and their fathers and brothers and uncles and grandfathers and cousins lives with fire on their heels, the devil himself there with a gun and knife made of the blackest steels and bullets made of wicked teeth…

Blinking in shock, Evelyn opened her eyes and swiftly shielded them from the sun finally making it’s full presence known. But now, with that vision in her mind’s eye, she realized something was wrong. Distantly, carried by the winds like a messenger to it’s king, she could eke out the sounds of gunfire and yelling. Stunned, she leapt to her feet, not really aware of where they were carrying her. Evelyn only had her rickety hunting knife (hadn’t Missouri given her this one? She nearly threw the knife right there in to the trees) and her guts to guide her. That’d worked before and why would this be any different? She’d made up her mind long before she’d left the fences of her farm and beat the trail to Lawrence, that this wouldn’t be any different from any other battle she’d been in.

The billowing smoke told her, at least subconsciously, that this was different. Lawrence was a city of civilians, not men of war. Even if men of war walked amongst them, that they made their stances quite clear and were ready to defend themselves; Lawrence was full of resting soldiers, tired wives and  _children_. This was a different matter altogether, because they were an undefended city of civilians with no military presence guarding them.

Evelyn could justify any other attack on Southern cities because they deserved it, they were the ones who wanted to secede. They had called upon those attacks themselves and also had active military presence there. 

These were civilians. And it would be far, far different.

* * *

 

> On the lintels of Kansas
> 
> That blood shall not dry;
> 
> Henceforth the Bad Angel
> 
> Shall harmless go by;
> 
> Henceforth to the sunset,
> 
> Unchecked on her way,
> 
> Shall Liberty follow
> 
> The march of the day.

Feet soft and tender like a doe’s, Evelyn made her way through kicked over fences and towards the town. Eyes flickering this-way and that-way, she had to be cautious. The roiling feeling in the pit of her stomach seemed to well up even more as Evelyn closed the distance from the farms outside the town to the town proper.

It felt like someone had dropped a weight into her belly, trying to drag her down like prey. Bared before her was Lawrence; burning and infested with _bugs._

The fires were worse; from far away, yes, you could see the smoke billowing like a baker’s oven and the sounds of gunfire _rat-a-tat-tat_ and _boom!_ Oozed across the treetops and prairies. But up close, one could see the true savagery the town was witness and victim to. Panic seared her thoughts; the federal troops had left just a few days ago and the ones left behind were ordered to keep secret. They had become lax and lazy because the people of the town had been left in the dark.

The sounds of battle quieted in volume as Evelyn quickly steered herself to the areas behind shops and homes, smoldering with sickly embers and burning wood. Evelyn gagged when she saw the burnt corpse of a...man...it was difficult to discern. Dropping closer to the ground, the blonde made sure her footsteps were light as a feather. The sickening feeling of being so close to the carnage and wanton murder of her people made a deep, roiling feeling bubble in her stomach. Shifting the knife in her hand, she tried to peek around store corners.

However, the armory wasn’t in sight and men on horseback rampaged about, whooping and hollering. Some were on foot, tearing men and boys from the arms of women and...Evelyn had to look away. She’d seen battle wounds and had experienced them before, but now? She was watching her own civilians be torn from their beds, from the warm embraces, that she hadn’t experienced first hand, of their families. Hands gripped the brick and wood structure of the store she hid behind.

Oh how she felt like a coward; she’d love to run out there, a rallying-call to her people to push and **fight!** But at the same time, the more logical side of her, one not persuaded by the rage and fear of the populace, convinced her to stay back. If she were to die, it wouldn’t help one bit.  A more cynical side of her grumbled that it would waste them a bullet or two. Evelyn decided to ignore that comment.

Steeling her resolve, Evelyn carried on in her alleyway slinking. She felt drawn to the vortex of the pillage; the Freedom Hotel. Her headache and her muscles cried out for a reprieve, but Evelyn was on her own warpath, fueled by her wounded and frightened populace. So much in her own thoughts, Evelyn did not seem to notice that her alleyway walks had caught the attention of a vengeful and spiteful man. Youth begets dulled senses, and inflated egos, as they say

* * *

 

> Do not think that I have come to
> 
> bring peace to the earth.
> 
> I have not come
> 
> to bring peace, but a sword.
> 
> ~Matthew 10:34

A rough hand grasped her by her shoulder and like a firecracker, Evelyn fought with all of her might. However, she seemed...weakened. And she didn’t have her gun on her and faintly, she realized that her knife had been wrangled out of her hands. She barely even processed the man’s words; something along the lines of me getting what I deserved. What did he mean?

And then it hit her; she was wearing her Union uniform. Throat tightening, Evelyn tried to struggle to her feet, to bleat out a prayer for safety and that she was a _woman_ not a man. But it refused to come out, only choking sounds able to make their way past her trembling lips as she staggered to her feet before being pushed back down. Looking back up feebly (Lord, she hated having to be described that way!), Evelyn stared at the barrel of a gun and then,

Nothing.

Evelyn had always wondered what it’d be like to die. Long ago, she had asked Missouri and he seemed to ponder it. She’d been too young at the time, but he’d given her an elusive answer, hand waving dismissively,

**_“You won’t ever experience it. So don’t worry about it.”_ **

She had asked Seth, too, about it. About death. He had looked sad, and Evelyn briefly wondered if he was torn between his desire for her to follow in his footsteps and his sadness that she'd asked. The older state had leaned back in his chair, looking pensive before answering with a reply that felt hollow then and still felt that way to her right then.

_“Don't worry about it” **not like I'll care if you don't become like me.** _

She resented them both for it.

And she had listened to funerals and sermons by pastors about death. When you died, you went to Heaven if you were good and holy. If not, you went to Hell. Where did those like her go? Would she come back? Would she be different when she did come back?

But now, she wished she’d been given some kind of warning. Something, so at least she’d have one thing to cling onto in this seemingly endless space. This didn’t look or feel like Heaven nor Hell. She felt so lonely. She grasped out for something and only found smoke. Ethereal and elusive; something she _hated._ A million things ran rampant in her mind, in this space,  

Like howling beasts;  **_like the men who destroyed Lawrence._ **

Like buzzing insects in the heat;  **_like them._ **

Like suffocating heat and pain and fear and anger that seemed to grow.

* * *

 

> Blessed be the Lord, my rock,
> 
> who trains my hands for war,
> 
> and my fingers for battle;

A pain soon grew from her head and faintly, the smoke around her spun and solidified into buildings and rubble and the morning sun choked by the smoke from dead architecture. Evelyn let out a hissed gasp and tears sprang to her eyes. She was being tended to, by a firm faced woman (Mary Wagstaff, from Vermont), hands quick but gentle. Gentle murmurs eased her tears and Evelyn didn't want to speak.

She realized that were no bandages to her head and Evelyn limply touched at her temple. _Nothing._ Had she healed that fast? None of her other wounds had closed this fast before. Her head spun and Mary urged a canteen of water to her lips. It tasted like God's gift and Evelyn eagerly lapped it up. Mary conducted one final sweep over Evelyn’s body and took back her canteen.

“Evelyn… I'm sorry if anything happened to you. But we'll be strong for you; that I can promise. Strong for the Union and strong for this state. Just be strong for us.”

Abashed, Evelyn nodded and looked away. Most of Lawrence knew about her; she liked to be open to her friends and neighbors. Mary gave a small nod and hurried off to check on any others. There would be others.

Rising shakily onto quivering legs, Evelyn held her pounding head. She wanted to stay, she did. But not if she couldn't if the feeling of something putrid haunted the pits of her stomach.

_She wanted to go home._

And home her legs carried her, the pants that protected them scuffed and burned. The heat was so much worse now with the sun up, but Evelyn was used to it. The sickness that dropped into her belly seemed to subside as she made her way away the from the town. Seeing the fences she had erected made her feel overwhelmed with relief. Although she had only been away for hours, although it felt like centuries, it felt like Evelyn was returning from home to a loving wife; like in the songs! Letting out a small chuckle, the blonde pushed into the farm. Her animals either rested in their stalls or, like the chickens, wandered the yard. Here, farther from the carnage and smoke (which was still visible, like a silent monolith in the sky), Evelyn’s mind was clear.

Finding her chair that provided a spot for her to think, the young state slid into it.  o the chair. Rubbing tired, shaking hands against her face for some kind of comfort, Evelyn closed her eyes. She wanted to smell the beautiful air, with the swaying flowers and waving trees. But the smell was tainted by smoke and blood. Promises of retribution and settled grievances settled towards the ground, threatening to be disturbed by passersby, like dust. Hands gripping onto her knees, Evelyn ground out her teeth. She felt so weak and taken advantage of. A steady sense of rage and bitterness overcame her sorrow and helplessness. Those raiders were Rebels, she was almost certain. Who else would burn the city home and virtual capitol to free-staters and Union citizens?

Eyes still closed, Evelyn let out a shaky breath, filled with malice and venom. She’d find them all and kill them. Every single one of them. And if not her, then surely their terrible deeds would catch up on them and kill them too. She’d be strong until then, until the evil were paid their dues and the good were redeemed from their terrible crimes.

She’d see to it.


	3. Dixie Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the devil comes, he'll come bearing a guise you're most familiar with. Evelyn deals with that.

He comes to her, looking like America. But he isn't, he's a perverse subversion to everything she's fought for; he's the Confederacy. He's clad in grey, like a stormy day. Polished metal on his belt buckle shines in the candle light of her home, one he insisted on entering and had pushed her aside for entry. 

They sat at her small dining table, gifted to her by the people of Topeka. They sit upon chairs given to her in good faith by the people of Lawrence. They both almost laugh at the near poeticism of the situation, but they aren't two people together to laugh. Not when Evelyn hates him with her entire soul, a burning Hellfire fueled by her own grievances and her people's angry calls. Evelyn thought she'd chased him away when she'd become a free state. Strangled him until he ran away like the coward he was. Couldn't die with dignity. 

Yet she knew he hated her too. Hated that she had avoided his grasp over and over again. And when he reached at her with cloying hands, she merely stomped his foot and the strained face he made caused a sneer to cross her face. 

The rebel smiled after he recovered with honeyed lips and words, a juxtaposition to the knife he held in his hands. They were tense (even more so than before), poised like animals to strike. When he spoke, Evelyn bored her eyes into his face, daring him to make a wrong move. 

“Now, darlin’ you know you can't stay away from me for so long,” he studied the knife like it was the most boring thing ever, “Missouri thought the same thing. He's very close to me, you know?”

Evelyn tensed at the mention of the state she hates so much. The traitor gets a gleeful look to his eyes and presses on, going for the kill. 

“If you come to me, join the others whether I make you or not I promise you won't ever have to interact with him no more. You'll be stronger, more able to defend yourself.”

Leaning back in her seat, thinking and mulling it over. She pretends to consider his offer, plastering a pensive look on her face. 

Then she kicks his shin with a well placed blow and lurches across the table. He howls in shock and is easy to haul across the room. Evelyn throws the door open and throws him into the dusty dirt.

“You aren't ever going to convince me to join a cause you support.”


	4. The Silence is Harder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's quiet and Evelyn's alone with her thoughts. 
> 
> She should be happy. The Civil War is over, she's free from service. Yet she can't seem to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clark - Idaho (my friend's, hips_of_steel character)  
> Seth - Massachusetts (tsunaKV character)

The nighttime air was thick and hot. Bugs worried about in swarms, birds rested in their nests. Although heavy with summer, there stirred a little breeze, bringing little comfort to those who wandered about at this time. The only ones who would, when the moon was high in the air, were men and women of the night. Vagabonds, wanderers, men searching for themselves. Nary a person stirred in their safe homes, tucked away in bed. Horses slept peacefully in stalls. It was a comforting night, one of nostalgia and remembered fondly by those thinking back upon their childhoods. Rosebuds of all colors and cypress flowers stood crowded by the edge of a porch, ringed by the dim light of a lantern set up high. They were at peace and ease with each other.

So, Evelyn wondered, why wasn’t she at ease. A whiskey bottle, sloshing about it’s amber contents, cradled in her arms. She sat leaning over in her chair, staring out at the horizon from her porch. The humming and buzzing of insects about her lantern by the doorframe mimicked her thoughts, abuzz and aflame. Her eyes ached with tiredness, a sleep shattered too soon. Evelyn wanted to go back to sleep, but the thought of crawling into bed and reliving, once again, her worst moments, was almost too much bear. Had she had more in her stomach, she would’ve assuredly emptied it all out from the panicked and scared feeling that washed over her.

Taking a deep swig from the bottle, Evelyn leaned back in the rocking chair. What had it been this time? Reliving the massacre of Lawrence? Being chased and gutted by an unseen bushwhacker, who laughed and laughed and laughed; Evelyn would cry and weep and beg. Was it one where she had been won over to the South, and Seth smothering her with a pillow? Or was it the one where she was shot in the head and _then_ gutted? Drowning? Being burned alive? Bleeding away to nothing? Another drink. Nothing could wash away the memories of those nightmares, like hounds from Hell.

It’d been almost 20 years since that time, and yet they continued to gnaw at her mind. Evelyn realized, deep in her mind, she needed to speak to somebody. Tell them she needed help. But...she wasn’t ready to dig at those scars. Not yet. Another drink. Almost out, she thought.

If she dug at them now, they’d bleed as freely as she used to be called.

And who would she talk to? Seth, she had beaten back with words borne from a deep rage, a trauma that haunted her brain like a malicious spirit. Roberto wouldn’t understand, and Evelyn had felt a quiet ill ease and wariness spilling her feelings to him. Clark, too young and too gentle to take or understand her tiredness, her nightmares, her feelings. Long drag from the bottle and she emptied it’s contents. Apathetically, she tossed it the side and let the burn from the alcohol cloud her mind.

Sweet Clark. Evelyn so badly wanted to tell him. But he wouldn’t understand; wouldn’t until he felt the sting of war, the sting of death and the hollow feeling it would leave behind; much like what alcohol left in its wake for her. _Selfish, selfish_ , a quiet voice brought up, _you want him to feel those things, so you can lay out how you feel; what about him, do you really want him to die, to go into war_ ? Evelyn dug her nails into her palms and wished so badly she had brought out a second bottle. She never drank this much, but this summer night ( _just like that night_ ) seemed hellbent on her destruction of mental stability. Again, she wanted to vomit, to empty her stomach, to quell that guilty and sickening thought that chewed and infected her very being.

She didn’t want Clark to suffer, she wanted somebody to talk to. To spill her thoughts, her pain, her agony to. Somebody who would understand. Seth would understand, but she couldn’t apologize to him yet. Evelyn still felt bitter about it, felt she was right. They were both wrong, yes, but Evelyn wouldn’t concede just yet.

The summer air felt choking, suddenly. Under her clothes, a simple night shirt and thin pants, they felt like her winter wear of woolen socks and shirts and thick pants. Her breath roiled from her lips, sickened with hard liquor. Everything spun and colors blurred together, wherever she looked. She tore at her shirt, trying to find relief from the entrapment she had put herself in. She stopped when she saw her scars, many healing but a few would stay. They were like the scars of a beast that had torn into her flesh. Her cross stood proudly across her chest, little silver chain still proudly shining. This divine sight forced her to think, to chase away the alcoholic cloud that had settled over her mind.

Rubbing a thumb across the jewel in-set, the designs impressed into the little silver, something to comfort and ground her. Even though the sick feeling in her belly still grumbled, Evelyn sat back up in her chair.

Closing her eyes, Evelyn prayed to the Lord above, hands clasping at the cross. It was a long-winded one, one borne of desperation and a lost, tired soul. Head bowed, her tousled blonde hair formed a screen across her eyes. Her one prayer turned into many, begging, pleading, desperate prayers. The sounds of the summer night faded into the back of her mind, merely chatter of a party when you are conversing with a far more interesting person.

And when she glanced back up, the dawn was fast approaching. Eyes blearily blinking at the coming light, she looked towards her lantern. Long gone out, the bugs scattered. Why did that feel oddly comforting? Shaking her head slowly, as a headache from the whiskey was also fast approaching with a dull throb, Evelyn heaved herself from her seat. Her body felt...cleaner, rested. Perhaps her prayers had, in part, been answered. Her soul wasn’t fully clean, but it was like a duster had been taken to it. Dust still lingered, but you could breathe until the next time more accumulated.

Although the idea of sleep still held the most appealing nature to it, Evelyn felt more emboldened, even if that boldness was simply show and held no more weight than a paper holding a weight. Grasping the lantern from its hook, Evelyn pushed inside of her home.

Crowded with things she had gathered from travels and trading, Evelyn weaved past photos and paintings and metal cups and bowls. Faintly, she saw a bible that she had been gifted from a Northeastern state. And there, under inkwells and papers, she saw a photo of her and Seth. Wincing, Evelyn ignored everything else and hurried up the stairs, leaving the dead lantern on a table next to them. They creaked and groaned like wailing ghosts, which she steeled herself from.

Pushing into her room, Evelyn stared at her bed. The silence that choked her whole house seemed denser her, far tighter and constricting. Like a snake, ready to clamp down on her throat. Closing her door as she left its side, she approached her bed. The sheets were tangled and the pillow thrown to the side, from her haste to get out of it. This felt ridiculous; she had faced soldiers in combat, seen death right in her face. But now she felt like she was a child. But she grasped at her cross again, seeking comfort and the ability to face this fear. The fear of sleeping, of her own damn bed.

Retrieving her pillow, smoothing out the sheets, it felt like a ritual. Forcing her feet to carry her forwards, then under the covers, Evelyn hoped, no,  _prayed_  ,that when she closed her eyes, her sleep would be dreamless. Even good dreams felt like a chore to be completed, not enjoyed. Rolling on to her side, eyes closing slowly. She could only pray that tonight, her mind would be silent.


End file.
